


This is Your Hometown

by firstbreaths



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstbreaths/pseuds/firstbreaths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After helping Burt Hummel with his Congressional campaign, Artie starts to wonder if his future might be a little different to how he’s imagined it</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Your Hometown

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for glee_gen_fest on LJ in 2011. AU post 3x04, but references events that occur later during the canon series.

**Title:** This is Your Hometown  
 **Author:** [](http://firstbreaths.livejournal.com/profile)[**firstbreaths**](http://firstbreaths.livejournal.com/)  
 **Recipient:** [](http://needsmoregreen.livejournal.com/profile)[**needsmoregreen**](http://needsmoregreen.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** PG13+  
 **Word Count:** ~7200  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Summary:** After helping Burt Hummel with his Congressional campaign, Artie starts to wonder if his future might be a little different to how he’s imagined it  
 **Author's Note:** This isn’t _exactly_ future!fic, but I wanted to explore how one of these characters would become a “Lima Loser”, so I hope I did your prompt justice anyway. Goes AU after 3x04, but references a few events that happened later in canon. Thank you to everyone who acted as a cheerleader during this fic, especially [](http://valentina-says.livejournal.com/profile)[**valentina_says**](http://valentina-says.livejournal.com/) and [](http://missgoalie75.livejournal.com/profile)[**missgoalie75**](http://missgoalie75.livejournal.com/) for betaing as well.

Title from “This Your Hometown” by Bruce Springsteen, in the spirit of Artie misappropriating all the songs.

Artie’s senior year is _exactly_ like he pictured it and yet not at all.

It all starts his junior year, really, when Burt Hummel appears during a local news broadcast with his characteristic slouch, announcing that he’s going to be running for Congress against the arch nemesis of - well, almost everyone Artie’s ever met, really, Sue Sylvester. Burt Hummel, who sure, had stormed Principal Figgins’ office more times than all of the other New Directions’ parents combined, but who was also unabashedly _that_ parent whenever the glee club performed, and who had, when Artie was in sixth grade, been pushed away from the bake sale table by Kurt, who claimed to know the perfect recipe for gingerbread men.

Artie doesn’t think much of it when Kurt mentions it, at first, too busy with the Brainiacs and the musical and busking with Puck to make some extra cash (and he doesn’t ask what _that’s_ about, because the look on Puck’s face is too many things he doesn’t want to see his friend suffer again (shame and hurt and something a little like guilt)). Instead, he just gives Kurt a fist bump and turns back to Blaine, wondering if there’s any way to turn “Peacock” into a performance that might actually be appropriate for the choir room. Blaine doubts it, but Artie just remembers some of the other songs they’ve sung and laughs.

It’s all too easy to delude himself that it’s going to be the same, because it should be, for him. But it’s also not - Rachel demands less solos these days, too busy saving her voice for _West Side Story_. Mike asked him last week if he had any vocal warm ups he could recommend, because he _needs_ to do well in the musical for a shot at dance school. Mercedes and Santana and Brittany just stormed of the choir room. Even Puck seems to be taking math seriously.

They’re all growing up and, when he stops and thinks about it, _he’s_ growing up too. Except he just doesn’t feel like it, some days. It’s kind of like the seniors are Lindsay Lohan, and he’s the cast of _Harry Potter_. Graduation, the rest of his life, they’re things that teachers only like to mention when they need to scare their classes into actually doing some work, things he only thinks about in the context of getting the hell out of this school and this town on days when he goes home with spaghetti strands stuck in the wheels of his chair. And yet, he’s left clinging to a sense of normalcy that the New Directions never really had.

“I know that most of this school wouldn’t know a political campaign if it appeared in front of them dressed in Monica Lewinsky’s blue dress, but I’d love your help, Artie,” Kurt says, and he smiles a little, agrees.

“Isn’t the Monica Lewinsky a -” he adds, thinking about it for a second, but the uncomfortable look Tina gives him from her spot on the other side of him is enough to shut him up. He can always go home and look it up on _Urban Dictionary_ but not mention it, lest that ruin his street cred.

He doesn’t know the first thing about politics, least of all what Kurt actually expects him to do considering that he’s not, you know, even _old enough to vote_. But he’s willing to pledge his support to anyone that doesn’t insist on calling during dinner.

*

Blaine approaches him a few weeks later, lingering awkwardly on the other side of the stage as Artie goes through a few last minute ideas with Ms Pillsbury. The musical is coming together nicely, after all the initial snags, and he’s proud of it. He’s proud of himself, really - the entire cast is talented, but he’s the one who pulled them together, who directed them until they could do it themselves.

It might be narcissism of the highest order, but Artie’s pretty sure it’s going to be the best musical McKinley’s ever put on (he ignores the fact that it’s probably the only one) - and he didn’t even have to pull off an epic storm out to get people to adhere to his vision. He's prepared if it comes to that, though - musical theatre is great and all, but occasionally there's nothing like being able to rock his wheelchair back and forth to the rhythm of a little P Diddy.

Artie wheels himself down the ramp at the side of the auditorium, pulling up in front of Blaine, who looks a little nervous.

"You and Kurt need to stop eyefucking each other on stage," is all Artie says at first. It's crude, maybe, but he's been reading up on famous directors, and he's pretty sure the straightforward approach works. Santana told him yesterday that he was better at being in charge than Mr. Schue, even if he tries to ignore the niggling feeling that she said that because Miss Pillsbury was in earshot and she wanted a reaction. "This isn't some kind of avant garde film where -"

"I'm going to stop you right there before Santana gets ideas about what other kind of film it may or may not be," Blaine replies, but he's laughing all the same. "This wasn't what I wanted to talk to you about, but thank you. For trusting me with this role, for believing I can do it. You're doing a great job with this, I think it's going to be a hit."

Artie feels his skin flush hot, his blush creeping below the collar of his sweater. He doesn't want to feel flattered, but - he kind of is, to the point where he's itchy with the expectation of it all.

It's different to singing for New Directions, where the performance is entirely for him, even if he gets a thrill out of watching other people singing and dancing along.

"What did you want to ask me?" he says, instead.

“Kurt needed to ask you something,” Blaine says, “but he’s busy helping Rachel with her costume and he said he’d really not take out an unsuspecting victim with his safety pins right now. Apparently some colours just don’t look good under stage lights. I agreed to ask because, you know, we hung out that one time and -”

Blaine breaks off, smile a little too sloppy and bright, and Artie marvels for a moment at the disconnect between character and actor, between the Blaine he’s come to know as Kurt’s boyfriend and now his teammate and this Blaine, standing in front of him with hands clasped at his side, at all the things _West Side Story_ has taught him; Blaine is faking this, he’s not sure why.

“Yeah man, we’re bros,” he says, wheeling around the corner and into an empty classroom, beckoning for Blaine to follow him, and Blaine visibly relaxes, seeming a little more sincere. Artie still doesn’t understand it, for a moment - and then he remembers Santana storming out of glee club. “How can I help?”

It’s enough, and Blaine replies, “I heard Tina say, a while ago, that you’re good with movie making. ‘Burt’s Corner’ is great, but he needs some publicity that will distance himself from Coach Sylvester, and we - Kurt and his dad, they were thinking of running an ad campaign.”

“Positive or negative?” is Artie’s only response, and he can already picture it in his mind, sort of, although he’s not sure how Kurt will react to him playing up Burt Hummel’s wholesome American image. He doesn’t care, really. Artie’s not the kind to make sacrifices for great storytelling. “Because I’ve got some really great ideas for both, you know, I think we could really make something of the fact that Burt’s a mechanic, you know. He’s a small business owner, and in this day and age, it’s totally hip to be relatable to the American people.”

"I'm not quite sure that's -" Blaine starts, but Artie cuts him off with a smile and a wave of his hand.

"Tell Kurt and Mr Hummel that I'm on it," Artie says. "I need to sketch a few of my ideas, but I'm free after rehearsals all weekend." Blaine just nods, short and sharp, like he’s unsure but willing to defer to Artie’s vision, and the sudden responsibility of it all floors him, just for a second.

This is a huge campaign - Burt Hummel’s going to be the political leader of their entire Congressional district if he wins this, and it’s always the underdogs whose campaign videos go viral on YouTube.

Blaine’s still kind of staring after him as he turns to leave, and on a whim, he adds, “I just got a new _Call of Duty_ expansion pack, maybe you can come around some time.”

He knows he’s said the right thing when Blaine grins in response. Artie’s not entirely sure why he’s offering, not really, but for all he feels like a third grader trying to desperately make friends, he and Blaine are going to be the only guys left in New Directions next year. And alongside his new found skills - he could totally direct the best thing since Kim Kardashian’s sex tape, even if he’s still not sure about selling out for TV - he’s learning a few other things, too. Maybe this is what it feels like, growing up - taking responsibility for the things that are changing, and for the things that you desperately want to stay the same.

*

It's strange, being at the Hummel-Hudson house without Finn or Kurt around.

It’s awkward, and he’s a little unsure, but it makes meeting with Burt Hummel easier; he can say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ on his own terms, instead of his friends’.

“I’m curious,” Burt says, handing him a mug of coffee that Artie accepts with a grateful smile, curling his fingers around it in a vain attempt to warm them up. Late fall in Ohio _sucks_ , this year. “How do you feel about all of this? I mean, I get that they’re very different things, but Sue’s talking about channeling money away from the arts and any funding that she pledges for special education could also have an impact on disability resources, and -” He shoots Artie a wary smile. “I wouldn’t want you to do this if you weren’t one hundred percent on board, I guess. Kurt can be very...”

“Persistent?” Artie adds, trying not to let his grin get too teasing. He likes Burt Hummel well enough, and even he knows better than to offend his son. “Honestly, Mr. Hummel, I just look it as practice for my future career, learning to work with all kinds of people. Not that -"

“You were going to say something about how my son pushes harder than a Russian gymnastics coach, weren’t you?” Burt asks, taking a sip of his own coffee and wincing. Artie glances back over his shoulder into the kitchen, at the seemingly innocuous jar on the counter next to the fruit bowl and yeah, totally decaf. Burt must misinterpret his own wince, though, because he adds, “Look, you’re a good kid, Artie. I might have been overstating it, a little, when I told Schue that your glee club saved Kurt’s life, because there’s a lot more to it than that, and I think he lets things go a little too far in the club, sometimes, but I get it. He’s _Kurt_ , but you guys have been good to him regardless.”

Artie deliberately doesn’t think about the _West Side Story_ auditions, doesn’t think Burt would want to hear about it even if he could bring himself to say something. He hasn’t decided if it’s a good thing or not, just yet, but this is a man who knows how to pick and choose the apologies he accepts.

Instead he just shrugs. “All the disability funding McKinley can get won’t stop the fact that she let kids get away with tossing me in a Porta-Potty.”

Burt makes a throaty little hum; Artie can't quite tell if it's righteous anger on his behalf or sympathy. It makes something flare up inside him though, his own kind of indignation, and he just pushes a storyboard across the table, suddenly glad he'd removed his math notes from the margins in a display of professionalism.

"How does Carole feel about going to an animal shelter this weekend?" Artie asks, trying hard to smile. "I'll have to make sure none of the shots can be used for lolcats macros, but there's something to be said for helping to bathe adorable kittens.”

"I'm not even going to ask about anything related to the Internet," Burt replies, but Artie feels slightly better when he agrees without a fight.

They spend the afternoon making phone calls and planning a short speech for Burt over more crappy tasting coffee, and by the time Finn comes home, demanding to know what’s for dinner, he barely remembers that sharp stab of something like annoyance at all.

*

The video doesn’t _quite_ go viral, but it does get picked up by a news website or two, most of them praising the confident, homely vibe that Burt exudes. One of them is just curious how that many adorable kittens can still exist in a town that harbours Sue Sylvester.

Artie’s already sketching ideas in the margins of his textbook when Burt calls him between English and US History to ask if he’d be interested in working on a second video. He just wheels into an empty classroom to avoid the crush of bodies in the hall, and starts talking details; politics, he’s quickly learning, is an industry full of cliches, and they’ve already done animals - so how about small children?

He’s always loved being busy and besides - this whole political gig is actually kind of interesting; he’s not putting too much stock in anything this year after the ReWalk disaster (it’s kind of a bitch, getting a present from Santa when it doesn’t come with a return policy), but he’s already put a copy of Barack Obama’s novels on his Christmas wishlist.

*

After weeks of rehearsals, _West Side Story_ goes off without a hitch.

Artie watches them all proudly, and as much as he hates to admit it, he gets a little nostalgic by closing night, finds himself measuring his success in the length of the applause and how well his pounding heart matches up to the rhythm. He’s nervous, night after night, but Mike assures him that’s normal, and a good thing - the more terrified you get, the more it means you’ve put everything you’ve got into the performance.

And he’s right - they’re fabulous, and the applause still thrills through him when Artie wheels himself out onto the stage for the final curtain call. The cast all crowd around behind him, when they call his name as the director and somehow, still, he feels taller than ever before.

It goes as quickly as it comes, though, and before he knows it they’re all slumped across the floor in the Berrys’ basement for a closing night party, high on post-performance adrenalin and the thrill of Puck and Mike’s baguette fight at Breadstix. Artie’s just glad they didn’t get kicked out, even if he doubts it - New Directions sometimes seem to be their main source of business.

There’s a strange kind of energy in the air; Rachel’s got a CD of herself singing Broadway’s greatest hits playing softly in the background, Brittany’s in the middle of the floor dancing to it while everyone huddles in small groups, but everyone’s quiet, a little unsure, like they don’t know what to do now that they don’t have to stress about running through a scene again, hitting a certain note one more time or getting their lines right.

It seems to get easier though (or maybe they just get drunker, less inhibited as the night goes on) and Artie watches them - Santana and Puck doing a drunken version of “America” with none of the technique but all of the feeling, Rachel and Kurt sitting quietly in a corner, talking about all the musicals they’re going to see when they’re together in New York, Rory telling Blaine and Tina about his family back in Ireland - and he wonders how they can do this, be so secure in where they belong.

He already feels lost without the bright stage lights and the need to tell somebody what to do, how to improve.

Artie’s been working on Burt’s campaign lately, trying to make something of his reputation as a “Lima man,” the guy who sponsored the local swim team’s trip to Columbus, who’ll give you a discount if your engine fails and you need to pay the rent. It’s going over well; the daily emails he gets from Mr. Schue about poll numbers aren’t depressing him to the point where he doesn’t want to get out bed in the mornings anymore. But still - he’s not sure how he feels, about having one place define all of the stories you want to tell the world, or if he even knows where that place is, for him.

Right now though, his place is right here, amongst all of these people, and he unsteadily wheels his way through the crowd, stealing Brittany’s cup out of her hands and shouting, “even death can’t part us now!”

None of them mention the fact that graduation, just a few months away, _can_ , and as Santana collapses into his lap, drunkenly moaning something about being grossed out by the hobbits getting married, Artie just laughs and takes another swig of his drink.

The alcohol burns his throat, and he’s dimly aware that last time, he totally drove his wheelchair into a wall or three, but it feels good.

He takes another sip.

*

The hangover seems even worse, this Monday.

Back at school, Santana and Brittany return to the Troubletones, barely giving him a passing glance in the hallways. Kurt’s still not talking to Rachel, and Blaine’s apparently still caught up in this stupid passive aggressive war with Finn. There’s more tension in the choir room than when the Beatles were dealing with all the Yoko Ono shit.

Directing is one of the best things Artie’s ever been given the opportunity to do, but today - he can’t even find it in himself to feel good about it. And it _sucks_ ,because he managed, for a few short months, to bring them together, but now he can’t stop them from tearing themselves apart.

This is how it goes, though, he’s lived through enough New Directions breakdowns to know that, and like all things, it will run its course, so this time - he’s not entirely sure that he wants to.

*

In the meantime, he continues working on Burt’s campaign, the two of them sitting in the office of Hummel Tires and Lube on a Thursday afternoon, sipping cans of Diet Coke while Artie edits footage from a presentation at the local junior high and Burt pores through dozens of pages of policy briefings. The silence doesn’t smother him like he thought it might; it’s comforting, in its own way, to know that Burt is comfortable enough with his ideas to let him be.

Burt does ask for his opinion occasionally though, and even though he’s startled at first, Artie soon finds himself able to respond with ease. Apparently it’s easy to read through a few pages of CNN whilst waiting for _World of Warcraft_ to load, and after getting the Barack Obama books for his birthday, he’s moved on Richard Nixon. There’s nothing like a good scandal to keep him entertained.

Besides, the more that he listens, the more that Burt’s policies start to, in his mind, make a lot of sense. There’s something to be said for a candidate who might actually improve life for students like him at McKinley _and_ who likes watching _Deadliest Catch_ as much as Artie does.

*

Artie’s phone rings in the middle of biology, and the teacher just glares as he wheels himself out into the hallway, waving his completed worksheet at her as he goes. Even with all his other extracurriculars, he’s still in the Brainacs, still a straight A student; he just tries not to remind people because the slushies still burn like fire, even if Kurt did find him a fabric spray that gets the stains out of the material of his chair.

It’s an unknown number, probably Puck stealing someone’s phone to alert him to a glee club member who’s gotten themselves into trouble somewhere else in the school, and he’s already barking contingency plans and trying to wheel himself along one handed when he realises it’s actually someone else on the line.

For a moment, Artie’s kind of terrified that it might be Coach Sylvester. Luckily, she stays out of the choir room because she apparently can’t stand the stench of mediocrity, but he tries his best to avoid her in the hallways, just in case she actually can get George Lucas to Fed Ex her a lightsaber. Or she tries to introduce him to Sarah Palin.

Instead, it’s a reporter from the _Lima Times_ , and he finds himself staggering forward into a row of lockers in embarrassment and shock, the wheels of his chair stuck spinning helplessly beneath him. He’s been spending months now, warning Burt against this very kind of thing because journalists are ruthless, at least according to all the political biographies he’s read, and Artie mostly just hopes that she couldn’t hear the loud thump of the collision over the phone line.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, trying hard to keep his voice under control, wheeling himself back and forth with one hand to try and calm himself. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Don’t be,” the reporter - Melissa, he remembers now, and he’s pretty sure he’s the one who reported on their first ever Regionals, only to spend most of it gushing about Jesse St James’ sex appeal and spelling Brittany’s name wrong - says, and Artie flushes even though she can’t see him. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions - get a scoop before the ice cream melts, as it were.”

He’s pretty sure that metaphor makes it sound like the Hummel campaign is going to crash and burn, which -

“We’re doing well in the polls,” Artie says, sticking to the tried and tested line that they worked out after weeks of testing slogans on Carole and Mr. Schue’s parents. “Sue Sylvester might be out in front, but she’s as unpredictable as the polls themselves, and the American people don’t need Britney Spears, they need country charm like Taylor Swift.”

“Clearly someone knows their pop culture,” Melissa replies, and honestly? He hadn’t even had a chance to bust out an MC Hammer reference. “But as interested as I am in why you think Burt Hummel’s going to win, I wanted to know more about you, the seventeen-year-old boy who got him a most-watched spot on YouTube.”

Artie almost runs into a wall again.

*

Two days later, they run the article, and even though his best quotes (the ones he managed to make after he stopped stumbling over his words like an idiot) get edited out, he’s more angered by the fact that the article’s mostly negative about Burt.

The thing is: no one actually suspects that Burt Hummel can win.

But: Artie's been in the New Directions for more than two years now, and he knows enough to understand what that means - he’s at least going to get close.

*

Burt does win, in fact, by a landslide, and the victory party’s in full swing by the time he turns up to the school gym, his mother still fussing with his collar as he makes his way in. She’s proud of him, both his parents are proud, and it’s funny really - having his mother be proud of him, it makes it easier to be proud of himself, even as it annoys him more than it should.

Artie lets her, though; bites back the snappish comment about how he’s old enough to dress himself, because it reaffirms everything he’s been struggling to actually come to terms with, in the past day - they won. They won, and he was a part of it - he helped achieve this.

Inside, he stands with Blaine and Kurt, glad that working with someone like Burt Hummel means edible (if a little too healthy) hors d’oeuvres (and that’s such a pretentious word, but he’s not entirely sure they’re not allowed to be a little like that, tonight), glancing around at all the smiling faces and suddenly feeling a little teary.

It’s funny, seeing all of these people without the dichotomy that the camera’s allowed him over the past few months. Politics is all about perception, and watching them now - Carole twirling around with Coach Beiste, Miss Pillsbury smiling happily even as she wipes at the edge of her punch cup with a tissue, Artie wonders: what was he doing, all that time? Were all those months of writing out scripts for advertisements and sketching out the best places for people to sit and stand, picking tie colours that won’t bleed on camera and finding an angle that best minimises the glare of sunlight, trying to make Burt Hummel and his friends appear ready to be political leaders needed, or were they already the best choice for the job?  
Of course they were – Artie does a lot of things but he doesn’t _sell out_ , he wouldn’t support a candidate he couldn’t come to one hundred percent believe in – but there’s still something to be said for showing that ability to the rest of Ohio, to the people who deserved better than lame jokes about duck hunting from Sue Sylvester.  
The camera can blind him, sometimes, make him immune to anything beyond shot composition, the parts of the whole, as it were. But other times – there’s a certain kind of beauty in capturing the smaller details, and as CNN blares in the background with its live election updates, replaying snippets of the video of the Hummel-Hudsons preparing for Thanksgiving, Artie’s fairly sure that this, creating something with meaning, that’s the bigger picture.

Burt comes over to him after a while, and Artie holds out his hand for Burt to shake it. He’s left surprised and stuttering when Burt leans down, engulfing Artie in a hug that leaves his suit jacket wrinkled. “Thank you,” is all he says, his smile soft and inviting, and it suddenly hits home, not just that they won, but what exactly they’ve achieved. Burt Hummel, newly elected Congressman from Ohio, is going to be able to put that exact same smile on other people’s faces with his policies, and it’s shockingly humbling, like a not entirely unwanted slap to the face that he needed, because this is about something greater than him.

It is about him too, a little bit, because he’s the sort of person Burt is fighting for, and Artie smiles, says, “thank you for letting me a part of it.” And then, before it gets to the holiday rom-com level of cheesy that he always likes to mock, “they’re waiting for you to make a speech, I think. Speak softly and carry a big stick.”

What? It's totally badass to be able to invoke a former American president in casual conversation.

*

It gets a little easier, after that, but it gets harder too.

Burt splits his time between Ohio and Washington DC, occasionally calling Artie for advice or relaying information through Kurt and Finn. He installs Skype on a whim, talking Burt through the navigational features of his new website between homework and checking his Facebook, and it’s not until he’s hanging up on Rachel after she runs through her Barbra Streisand audition medley for the twelfth time, seemingly forgetting that he’s still on the other end of the camera, that it hits him – he’s going to be using this as his only form of communication with people soon.

Unlike with Burt, where he can explain the basics over a call and then go around to the shop when he’s home for a week or two, he can’t just run off to UCLA to help Mercedes fix her printer or to Florida with Brittany for an impromptu interview on _Fondue for Two_ (his last interview hit 2000 notes on Brittany’s tumblr; it’s fun being an internet celebrity and having all of the fame and none of the stalkers, even if he’s not entirely sure if that last marriage proposal was for him or Lord Tubbington).

Artie throws himself into New Directions after that, performances and parties and competitions like they’re a hurricane and he’s floating on the wind, struggling not to get swept away except it’s glorious, and he kind of _wants_ to. They win Nationals with a routine they actually prepared in advance, thrumming with nerves right beyond the final goodbye. It’s funny, really, how he can be nostalgic for something he’s going to get another shot at next year, simply because this is the last time with these people.

It comes and goes, though, until it hits him like a meteor (he stays away from the car metaphors, because he can’t quite hold the arms of his wheelchair without twitching and it _hurts_ , more than he’ll ever tell anybody) when they’re all milling in the parking lot of Breadstix, the night after graduation. Everyone’s there, arms around shoulders and bodies a little too close like they’re drunk and sloppy, even though Breadstix has been strict on not having any alcohol on the premise since the great Santana Debacle of 2010 (it’s like Fight Club. They don’t talk about it), and no one seems quite willing to make the first move – until somebody does.

He’s never quite sure who, but he thinks it might be Puck, unable to handle the sentimentality for too much longer, until they’re suddenly all hugging and he’s pretty sure that yelp means he just ran over Sugar’s foot, and everyone’s saying their goodbyes, even though he’ll see most of them at some stage or other over the summer.

Artie gets a hi five and a shy smile from Quinn, who says, “see you somewhere that’s not Ohio, next year”, and he’s both simultaneously proud that they think he’ll survive the year, make it out, and a little frustrated that they assume he’s just as unhappy here as they are.

He loves his friends, but thinking back on all the work he did on Burt’s campaign, he can’t help but think: it’s not Lima itself, but the people who aren’t willing to change it.

*

One thing that political campaigning has taught Artie: it’s one thing to anticipate something, and another to actually live it.

Senior year seems a little like that to him, in some ways, the quest in his video game that he’s been itching to unlock for weeks but has no idea how to crack now that he’s here, the future that he’s been longing for until - oh shit, he actually has to make a decision about his future now that he’s here.

He’s been thinking about film school for a while, looked at colleges in New York, Chicago, LA. Artie’s not sure if it’s the cities or the schools themselves, but none of them seem quite right, like he can’t quite imagine himself there - between still working for Burt over the summer, doing up posters in Photoshop over the summer, and filming a couple of auditions for Tina, who’s determined to get into a performing arts school somewhere, maybe it’s just been too long since he’s had to work with a blank canvas. New York, he can sort of grasp at even though he wasn’t a fan in the way that most of his glee club were, but it’s kind of hard to imagine himself in cities he’s never been to, like inserting himself into a shot of the Chicago skyline where his proportion to the city is ridiculously distorted.

He’s grown to like having some sense of familiarity, an already shared reference point to work his designs around.

All of which Artie mentions to Miss Pillsbury (technically Mrs. Schuester now, but apparently she’s keeping her own name), who seems to automatically think that there’s something else going on, like indecision is something akin to germs to her. He likes Miss Pillsbury, really, has ever since she accompanied their glee club to their first ever Sectionals, but her kind of help is just totally not compatible with what he wants.

He ignores the fact that he doesn’t entirely _know_ what he wants.

“You know,” Miss Pillsbury says, pushing a pamphlet across the desk at him, “your academics are great, and you’ve got plenty of extra-curriculars, you could always try for a scholarship. You’d have a great shot at a lot of them.”

“Because of my disability,” he replies, fingers already clenching around the wheels of his chair as he fills in the gap for her, and if he’s a little defensive or snappish, it’s because Miss Pillsbury does this to him, McKinley does this to him, causes fractures where there are none, creates a gaping chasm between how he relates to his disability and how others do. “No offense, Miss Pillsbury,” Artie says, even if he kind of vindictively hopes she’ll take it that way, “but if I’m going to make it, I’m going to make it my own way.”

He sounds so much like Rachel Berry that it terrifies him, but he’s also kind of proud, and with that, he spins his chair towards the door and makes his way out.

It’s not until he’s already on the other side of the doorway that he hears her add, a little quiet and unsure, “that’s not what I was referring to at all.”

Apparently trying to take control of your destiny doesn’t make the decisions come any easier. It’s both the easiest and hardest thing he’s done in his life when he turns around and wheels himself back up to her desk, fingers tapping nervously on the frame of her chair.

“I was thinking about maybe making a documentary of our glee club,” he says, raising an eyebrow as he waits for her response. “The last of our original members are leaving this year, and even though we’re no Adele in this school, it would be great as a reminder of our legacy. Plus it would look good on my college applications.”

There’s a pause, and he’s mostly glad that it’s not nearly as awkward as it could be. “I’d be happy to, uh, arrange with Mr. Schuester to find some time to film. During office hours, of course,” and he smiles, just a little.

By the end of the session, he still has no clue about what he wants to do with his future, but he feels like he could have.

*

“You could always sing about it,” Tina suggests during English, as Artie stares forlornly at his copy of _Macbeth_ and wishes he’d thought to steal notes from one of the New Directions seniors last year, because this is pointless. “I'm sure some great songwriting deity wrote a song about the difficulties of choosing a career, although you may want to shy away from Eminem."

"That's just it," Artie sighs, "I don't want to sing."

When she gapes at him, he adds, "I can't just subscribe to Mr. Schue's pseudo lessons and act like it's helping anymore. We're seniors, we need to think outside the classroom. Otherwise, we’re going to be like boybands, out there - one hit wonders until we’re suddenly not.”

“It’s a stupid metaphor, but I can see your point,” and it hurts, not just because Tina’s laughing at him, poking at his shoulder a little harder than she maybe intended. It hurts because she _can_ see his point, because they’re not freshmen with stars in their eyes until the slushies hit them in the face, anymore. It hurts because he didn’t even have to stop to consider it, he’s been thinking about it all summer, about the same kind of dichotomy between him performing his feelings and living them that he’d picked up on from Burt’s performances on and off camera, last year, and the decision should be harder than this.

It’s not that he doesn’t like singing, he does; he’s even got a medley picked out that plays homage to LL Cool J for their next New Directions assignment. And, if he _wanted_ to sing about this, he could totally bust out a rendition of the Pussycat Dolls “When I Grow Up”.

He just doesn’t need that escapism these days; so long as Burt’s new education mandates keep slushies banned at McKinley, there’s nothing Artie needs to wheel himself away from really fast, not anymore.

“Let me know if you need help with a performance anyway,” Tina says with a bright smile. There’s so much concern for him in her gaze even as she hunches back over her books, not just as his ex-girlfiend but as someone who’s spent two years weathering the storm with him, and Artie knows - no matter what he decides to do with his life, the hardest part of the future is always going to be letting go of the past.

*

He gets better at it, though, applies to most of the schools he looked at over the summer in between convincing Blaine to join the Brainiacs, stopping Rachel from calling them from New York during every New Directions meeting and throwing Sheldon Cooper references into the discussion in his physics class just to marvel that even the teacher doesn’t understand.

Artie kind of gets it; given Sheldon’s dislike of dealing with people, he’s sometimes convinced the character’s from Lima, not Texas - the only difference is, Artie kind of likes them here, even if Sugar only believes in gravity so long as it means the world centres around her. He’s not nostalgic for a place he hasn’t even left yet, but they’ve got character.

It’s kind of like _the Simpsons_ , or _Gilmore Girls_ , where the town comes alive due to the supporting characters, even if he does think that Mr. Schuester would be terrifying in yellow. And maybe it’s narcissistic or arrogant, or whatever, but it’s exactly the kind of town he’s going to be glad he lived in when he writes his autobiography.

Sometimes, on those days when he’s not really sure he’s just confused by having too many options, like that kid who eats everything from the lunch buffet even though everyone knows the tater tots aren’t even made from real potatoes, he wonders if he wouldn’t mind not taking any of them. Which - it’s not like staying in Lima was _never_ an option, except that it wasn’t - until it suddenly was. Artie’s still determined to make something of himself,

Growing up, it seems, is not just about making choices - it’s also about discovering that you _have_ a choice in the first place.

*

He’s still mulling it over when Burt calls, and he answers the phone quickly, almost knocking over his lunch tray; he shoots Blaine an apologetic smile before he launches into an explanation of why Burt needs a haircut before the Congressional vote on school vouchers; he’ll probably get interviewed and he can’t afford to look scruffy.

“I knew there was a reason Kurt recommended you to me,” Burt laughs, affectionate and warm over the phone, like he’s actually glad for Artie’s advice, even with all the help he’s now got in Washington. “But I actually called because I’d like you to come around this weekend; Carole’s cooking a roast and there’s plenty of go around now that we’re not feeding Finn.”  
“If there’s roast, I’m totally on board, man,” Artie replies, a little confused. He raises an eyebrow at Blaine, wondering if he’s been invited too, if Kurt or Finn are maybe coming back into town for a surprise visit, but right, Blaine has no idea what the conversation’s about. He’s been to the Hummel-Hudson home dozens of times in the last year, but never for dinner. “Do I need to suit up, Barney Stinson style?”

“Is that a designer, or are the education reforms I helped to pass teaching you kids some strange kind of slang?” Burt replies, before adding, “Dinner’s at seven,” and hanging up. Artie’s so confused that he just latches on to Blaine and Tina’s conversation about this week’s New Directions assignment, pitching in a few ideas because he is _so_ not missing out on a shot at rapping like Nicki Minaj.

Artie arrives about fifteen minutes early, though, a few ideas for a happy holidays advertisement tucked under his arm; it’s never too early to start busting out the Christmas Carols, if only because a few renditions of the classics might finally get rid of the Justin Bieber versions that have been ringing in his ears since last year. Carole helps him negotiate his chair up the stairs, just cracking a joke when he almost knocks a framed photo of Kurt and Finn off the wall, and he’s barely settled at the table when Burt says, “I don’t want to put any pressure on you, but –“

“Please don’t tell me you’ve gotten involved in some kind of ‘gate’ scandal,” Artie replies, “Because I’d drown myself in my own dirty bathwater before I tried to make something good out of all the words that rhyme with ‘gate.’”

Burt waves a hand before taking a mouthful of his dinner. “No, no, no,” he says, “although your dedication might have an influence, here. I wanted to offer you a job, after you graduate.”

And okay, he’s totally choking on a mouthful of his roast, because that is _so_ not what he expected.

“I’m going to be spending a lot more time in DC next year,” Burt says, “but it’s the people here who voted for me, and I figured you could, you know, run my office here, keep putting out media that lets them know that I’m still representing them.”  
It’s still not what he expected, but the more he thinks about it, the more Artie can picture it. He chokes down a mouthful of roast and tells Burt he’ll think about it, because it’s a big decision, his entire future like an apple in the palm of his hand, ready to reach out and bite or throw away. (He must be shocked if he’s coming up with metaphors that have vague links to _Twilight_ ; he’s scarred, thanks to some of the things Lauren once told him, but also a little ashamed).

There’s always going to be that discontinuity between what he captures on film, the Lima he wants people to believe that Burt Hummel represents, the Burt Hummel that he wants Lima to believe is representing them, but Artie’s done a lot of growing up, since this crazy campaign first started, and he’s learnt a lot about seeing both sides of the story.

He’s a director though, first and foremost, complete with tunnel vision and all those clichés, and maybe he can help bring those things together, help Lima to become the town that his footage has always made it out to be.


End file.
